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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

Samuel Beckett

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Samuel Beckett
Age: 83 †
Born: 1906
Born: April 13
Died: 1989
Died: December 22
Artist
Author
Cricketer
Film Director
French Resistance Fighter
Intellectual
Linguist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Teacher
Dublin city
Samuel Barclay Beckett
Andrew Belis
Sam Beckett
Sa-miao-erh Pei-kʻo-tʻe
Samuel Beḳeṭ
Helplessness
Polite
Tone
Tried
Conversation
Came
Help
Groan
Helping
Groaning

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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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There's never an end for the sea.
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I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
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Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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It is better to adopt the simplest explanation, even if it is not simple, even if it does not explain very much. A bright light is not necessary, a taper is all one needs to live in strangeness, if it faithfully burns.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
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I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.
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